Fate: Writings of a Muse
by ForteOfTheBallad98
Summary: Across the various branches of the multiverse, there are stories yet to be heard. Tales yet to be told. Deeds yet to be witnessed. So, in this piece of literature, all of these unsung tales are collected for the reading pleasure of any who wish to know them. A collection of Fate/Nasuverse writings/short stories. Character tag will change with each story updated.
1. The Wild King (I)

**Requiem of the Wild King I**

Atop a mountain resembling an arrowhead, the Black Knight stood tall and silent.

His armor was pitch black, entirely so, but it wasn't completely so. Gold lined the black metal and gauntleted arms, as well as even the black robes that flowed from underneath the armor itself. The armor wasn't jagged either but rounded and perfectly fitting its wearer. Overall, it was a very regal look and if anyone were to see him, they would come to the conclusion that the lone sentinel was of great importance.

The knight clutched something in his right hand. It was a form of smog, some sort of dark mist that resembled air yet was not so. Something was hidden within it but could not be perceived. A sword? A spear or dagger? It could have been any one of these things.

The only sound that echoed around him was the chirping of the red-breasted robins. Overall, it was a peaceful scene, bellying the inner thoughts of the sentinel who might as well have been a statue.

Many minutes passed until the knight took his invisible weapon and sat upon a nearby rock, peering down upon a town alight with the pinpricks of torches and even from here, he could hear the yells.

The knight sighed as he knew he would have to deal with those down below shortly. He didn't wish to, but he had no choice in the matter, unfortunately. He had long resigned himself to this reality, of hunting sinners for all eternity, but that did not mean he could not feel something at his predicament.

Shifting himself, from behind his leonine helmet with a golden mane fluttering at the back, the masked warrior peered up at the sky.

He watched the clouds idly, his thoughts now preoccupied with himself and other meaningless things.

How long had it been, he wondered. How long since he had been crowned the King of the Wild Hunt? It could have been a decade or even many centuries since- he lost count of time quickly since the concept didn't apply to him and his comrades.

How many Hunts had he led? He didn't know the answer to that either. Time was a concept he had no solid grasp on anyway and he let himself escape into his memories of better times. His fellow Hunters were most likely the same even if they didn't show it. They weren't evil people by any means, but rather ones that you got tired of quickly.

Robin Hood was a bit annoying in fairness but his joviality fondly reminded him of Galahad, the ever-present jester. For that, the man wasn't so annoyed and tolerated him at least.

Drake was in a similar boat, but she knew something of what the black knight felt and often gave him space if he needed it. He greatly appreciated it, at the very least.

The knight's shoulders dropped in resignation and tiredness, sighing to himself a little. This was his reality now. Hunting sinners and killing sinners, no matter who they would be or what shape they would take.

As he peered up at the clouds, the knight thought back to when this began. When he began his role as the Wild King, the mists of time seemingly taking him back to that time...

-X-X-X-X-X-

The field was consumed by flame and chaos.

The air smelt of death and despair.

Corpses and bodies were present upon the destroyed field, flames raging around it in a malevolent pattern, almost as if they were seeking to wipe out all those that lived that remained. The corpses were mutilated to the point that they were hardly recognizable as such, instead seeming to be just metal slabs that happened to be in the shape of humans, or else mutilated pieces of meat.

Flags that represented each side were burning, destroying any semblance of conflict. Swords and weaponry were stuck into the scorched earth, their metal burning as if the events that occurred at this place filled them with despair. At that moment, this field and hill weren't a battlefield. It wasn't even the site of two armies clashing, or of the leaders of each side killing each other. There could only be one description of this chaotic place.

A site of hell on earth. That is the only meaning to this place, to the fields of Camlann. A site of the great and unspeakable tragedy, representing the end of a golden age.

Even as the flames raged, in desperation comrades still tried to save each other. They tried wrapping grievous wounds with bloodstained cloth or amputating mangled limbs; even when they saw that their efforts were hopeless, they still refused to give up. They whispered sweet nothings to their former brothers in arms, to give them some comfort in death, in dying so far away from their loved ones. For each one that survived, more died.

Enemies continued trying to kill each other. Despite the carnage around them, enemies that had cursed one another still struck death-blows, cutting deep into the flesh of others, blocking out the rest of the scene with their own bloodlust, ignorant to the tragedy around them. They were too far gone to be saved. Some even continued fighting because of the tragedy, to give the deaths of their comrades and friends _some_ meaning, to make it so that their sacrifices and deaths were not in vain. Yet, even then...

In their blows were sorrow and regret. Sorrow that events had led to this blood-stained battlefield, sorrow that they were going to die away from home, away from lovers or family. Regret that they were fighting and killing those they had once called brothers in arms.

Fathers against sons. Brothers and brothers. The family cut down the family.

Madness. That was the only way the hellish scene could be described as. There was no chivalry, no honor, no human decency: there was just tragedy, humanity killing itself, and warriors who had once fought great monsters now suffered the devouring feeling of despair.

On the hill, there was a man. He wore white armor stained dark with blood, blue cloth flowing from underneath and which was stained by the running dirt. Parts of it were scorched by the flames of hell. His once shining blonde hair was matted with blood, almost as if he had bathed in it, and a grievous wound ran down his chest as if someone had ripped a brutish weapon down him. Blood flowed from that injury, staining his once immaculate armor and the ground beneath him red. On his left arm, there was a shield but battered and warped in places, looking more like a ruined piece of metal than a shield.

He could only kneel: he had no energy left, and even if he could move he wouldn't wish to. He supported himself using his sword. It had once been beautiful as well, bringing joy and triumph to his allies, fear, and respect to his foes. A golden broadsword with intricate designs, it had served as his weapon through sorrow and triumph. It was the blood-stained knight's greatest weapon.

But even now it reflected the chaos of the hell it and the knight were surrounded by. Its surface was grimy, dirt clung to it in clots, almost rusting, with blood drenching it. It was no longer truly beautiful: instead, it was an insult, a pale comparison to its former glory. Even as the knight looked at it briefly, blood ran down it anew, as if it was crying tears of blood at the carnage.

"Where..." The knight finally said, his voice cracked and lacking energy. "Where...did it go wrong...?"

His eyes once shone like emeralds but were dulled in the face of this place. His face once expressed light and just but was now blank and drained. He was no longer the honorable and disciplined King of Knights, but a shadow of his former self.

With hollow eyes and a hollow soul, Arthur Pendragon looked around the fields of Camlann, at the hell he had caused.

The hell around him burned itself into his visage, imposing itself upon him. The flames seemed to creep towards him, reaching out blazing hands to claw at him. The numerous amount of swords stood like graves, memorials to their users. Corpses were strewn about, hacked into bloody chunks, and the blood turned the once green grass and hill completely red.

It horrified him. It terrified the King of Knights to his very core, that _this_ was what his actions had caused. With a morbid fascination, he looked around each sign of tragedy etching itself into his memory, making sure he would never forget. The way he looked around... he was less of a Knight-King and more someone who had suddenly lost something precious to them, something they had tried to protect with all their determination, only to fail.

His dying Dragon heart beat fast against his chest, seeming to Arthur as if it was trying to kill him. The death around him... how could this have happened? _Why_ had it happened? What was the _purpose?_

Even in the war with Vortigern, where he had slain that evil White Dragon, there had been nothing like this. Vortigern had earned a reputation for cruelty and monstrosity, for sure, and Arthur himself had seen many of the results of the White Dragon's armies upon the land of England.

 _It was in the midst of the war with Vortigern, and Arthur was almost completely lost._

 _He was holding a child, a boy no older than six or seven. The boy was breathing shallowly, eyes closed, but with a wound to his chest and back. It was a tragic sight, and it was all he could do to tell himself_ this boy would live-!

 _The village behind him had been burnt to the ground, and corpses covered the ground. Families had been killed- fathers died defending, sons died protecting, mothers and daughters died denying the lust of the monstrous warriors that served Vortigern. Their last act of defiance was making sure they did not toy or use them as they used other villages._

 _Some hadn't been fast enough to escape in death._

 _Arthur looked at one particular sight, where the corpses were being buried by some of his warriors so that they could at least find some semblance of peace in death. Bedivere- good, loyal and kind Bedivere- chanted the burial rites as the corpses were laid to rest, with Lancelot doing the rest. Away from the others, Tristan himself looked away from the carnage. Despite his eyes being every closed, Arthur could tell he was sickened and full of sorrow._

 _Vortigern's knights had done much worse than kill people here. Arthur and his knights had made sure to execute them without mercy, without kindness: they simply slaughtered the monsters in human flesh._

 _There was a stir; the boy was awake. Arthur gasped, and looked down at the boy. His eyes were opening slowly, blank but a strange feeling captured Arthur's heart._ The boy was alive!

 _Before he could call out to Bedivere,_ anyone _to help him with the boy, a voice not long for this world echoed from the throat of the boy. Arthur froze, shock gripping him just as he gripped the boy tighter._

 _"My...lord?" The boy asked of him, coughing slightly: red drops dotted Arthur's pristine white armor. "Is...that you?"_

" _Yes, it is me." Arthur's smile was small, yet genuine. The boy smiled slightly in turn._

" _Have you...come to save us?" The innocent question from the boy's lips froze Arthur to his core. "Is everyone...is my family safe?"_

 _Arthur's heart felt like it had been ruptured. He had completely frozen, and his body felt strange...as if there was a disconnect between it and himself. He gulped slightly and looked over at some corpses that had not been laid to rest yet._

 _They had all been crowding around the boy in his arms, trying in vain to protect him from the wrath of Vortigern's soldiers. Their determination had done nothing to protect them: swords had easily slain them and would have killed the boy if Arthur and his group hadn't arrived in time._

 _As if viewing the world from a strange perspective, Arthur's mouth moved on its own. He was acutely aware of the sour feeling in his stomach and the way he was trembling ever so slightly but forced it away for now. Just a little while..._

" _Yes..." Arthur told him, then cleared his throat. "Yes, they're all safe. I'll take you to them shortly."_

 _The boy's tired smile could illuminate a darkened cave, Arthur thought, as the boy relaxed and the last of the stress eased out of his form. This should be considered a good omen, but even though he was wearing armor and clothes underneath it, he was very sure the boy's body was going cold._

" _Ah, I'll be glad to see them later. I'm just...really tired..." The boy's eyes lulled shut, his body beginning to still._

 _A surge of panic seeped into Arthur's body, paralyzing him in shock and hopelessness. Surely there was something he could do to save the boy. Surely he, the King of Knights and wielder of a Holy Sword, should be able to do_ something _to save this small boy from dying!_

 _The raw panic threatened to overthrow him, but a strange calmness washed over Arthur like a wave. He heard drops on the ground: it was raining now._

" _Sleep as long as you like," Arthur told the boy, locking his sadness away. "They'll be waiting for you."_

 _With a last smile, the boy closed his eyes and breathed his last breath. His body stilled, and the rain turned heavy._

 _The boy had died happy, as he should have._

 _And yet..._ Arthur was lost.

 _He could barely_ think _through this, unaware of how the world kept moving around him, almost as if he was isolated in Avalon. He breathed in, heavily, steadying himself just for a little. His body trembled more, but it became firm when he exercised his will: he wiped some blood from the boy's face, and with a new and vague resolution, stood up._

" _My lord?" Who was it that was asking him that question? Was it Bedivere? He couldn't tell through the haze of the rain. "Where are you going?"_

 _"I'm going to bury this boy myself." His voice was distant; for a moment, Arthur couldn't even tell it was he who had spoken. "It's the least I can do..."_

 _It's the least I can do since I failed him and this village._

 _It's the least I can do because I_ failed.

 _I...failed. I promised I would protect my subjects, but I..._

I...

A cold claw grasped a hold on Arthur's heart, freezing his blood and he lost the remaining inner strength he had, barely able to keep himself up. He remembered that day clearly, as he always had. The first time he had truly failed to protect his subjects, to give them protection from anything that would want to harm them. Just like now, he realized suddenly, he...

He had failed to give them salvation.

Gawain, Galahad and many other knights he had professed to be close to had lost their lives as a result of all of this. They had all died fighting, either each other or dying like they lived: like comrades and blood-brothers.

He looked down at the silver-clad knight at his feet, impaled with his holy spear. A feeling of regret spread through him: Mordred, his 'son', another person he had deeply failed. Perhaps if he had accepted Mordred back then, when 'he' had revealed 'his' identity, this all might not have happened. As it stood, he had failed Mordred greatly as well.

He couldn't help but wonder at the irony. What a hypocrite he was at the end of it all. He had built his kingdom on the promise that at the slightest threat he would protect them, that he would do anything to keep his kingdom, subjects, and others safe. He had done so to the best of his ability against Vortigern, against Lucius Tiberius, and against other threats. He had mostly been successful: he had lost, he had mourned but he at least had protected some.

Here, he had protected none. Here, he had not saved anyone. Here...he failed them all. He had failed his kingdom, and from the death and despair he saw around him, his kingdom was gone. All thanks to him and his actions.

In that moment, it became truly apparent to him once more. Something dark clawed at his chest, and his heart froze in his chest, spreading the cold to his limbs and through his blood. He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was obvious now to him in these final moments. Recalling every moment since the beginning of the end, it became clear that _he_ was truly responsible for Camelot falling. For Britain falling.

Banishing Guinevere and Lancelot, rejecting Mordred, and so many more decisions and actions led to his kingdom falling. _He_ was responsible for all of this senseless death and carnage. This wasn't what he had wanted, this wasn't what he had worked towards, but all the same...

In that moment, it became truly apparent to him once more. Something dark clawed at his chest, and his heart froze in his chest, spreading the cold to his limbs and through his blood. He didn't want to believe it, but the truth was obvious now to him in these final moments. Recalling every moment since the beginning of the end, it became clear that _he_ was truly responsible for Camelot falling. For Britain falling.

He was responsible for failing to give his kingdom and people salvation.

With a sudden and terrifying clarity, the Once and Future King truly despaired.

No tears came, no refutations or anger or bargaining. Arthur's face didn't shift expressions, staying stuck in the stone-cold face he had been wearing for months, the face of a man who had seen too much violence, death, and destruction of what he held dear. Everything Arthur had worked for was now ashes, everything he held dear was ashes, and he did the only thing that he could do since he had failed in everything else.

He accepted that he had caused all of this, and his kingdom would be gone forever more.

The once proud and strong King of Knights sagged even further into the ground, his grip on Excalibur loosening as everything started to become dark and cold. How fitting, he thought, that he would die when he had realized his role in the beginning of all of this. It was an ignoble end, but it was one he felt that he deserved.

But still, he thought as his eyes began to close, if he had one regret, one wish, it was that...

 _He wanted to save Britain. He wanted to save his kingdom. He wanted to save his people._

His desire, one that even at this moment couldn't deny, was still to grant salvation and peace to his kingdom and those inside of it. Through whatever means, if he could do it, he would. If he could somehow make up for this failure right here and now, then he would take that chance.

 _In his next life, if he could grant some salvation to people and the world, perhaps he could atone for not being able to do the same for his kingdom and people._

If he could still uphold justice...

The world suddenly stopped. The flames stopped blazing, the warriors stopped fighting, weapons froze mid-swing. All motion seemed to cease. Arthur tried to look around, wondering if this was just what happened before you die before he felt something. A cool hand touched his cheek, and despite himself, he relaxed into it: in the hell around him, it was something he could focus on before he died, making sure that he at least had something good left.

With his fading eyesight, he looked at the person who had cupped his cheek. He held his breath, and his eyes widened slightly. Even though his eyesight was failing and the darkness encroaching on him, he recognized that form. He recognized that person.

It was...

"Guinevere..." His hoarse voice called out, barely able to be heard, but he said it all the same.

Yes, it was definitely Guinevere. It had to be: even now he remembered everything about her. The beautiful clothes she wore, the bright hair she had and the vivid green eyes that sparkled like emeralds. Even her smile, a memory he had always treasured, was in the forefront of his mind.

With that came other memories, other memories of her that he treasured and kept close to his heart. Their first meeting, when they were children: when they met again, he as King and she as his bride-to-be; their wedding; that night; his wife seeing him off on quests and being _right there_ when he returned...

This thing in front of him was identical to Guinevere in every respect. The one thing that was different was that this entity in front of him had a blank expression, looking at him curiously. How could that be Guinevere? She had always smiled, always laughed...

This thing was not Guinevere. But all the same, it gave him comfort.

" _Did you seek justice, O King of Knights?"_ The fake Guinevere asked him. _"Did you punish the sinners? Those who threatened justice?"_

He was confused, surprised and anxious all at the same time. Why was he being asked these questions? What purpose did they serve? But all the same, he found himself answering.

"I did seek justice." He told it. "I sought justice and peace, salvation and protection for my kingdom and my people. In the end...I wasn't able to give it to them. I..."

Failed. He couldn't even speak that word it was so abhorrent to him. But that was the only way he could describe his role in bringing down his kingdom; he had failed in keeping his promises, he had been a hypocrite, and as such his kingdom had paid dearly for it.

He wanted to atone for failing them. For failing his citizens and friends. If he could at least, in his next life, save people to make up for his failings here and now...

The entity said nothing but the gaze it gave him showed it had seen his inner thoughts. From the point where its hand connected to his face, a cold feeling spread through Arthur's mind, body, and soul. His heart began pumping once more, his Magic Core bursting to life bit by bit, the faint roar of a Dragon echoing within Arthur's ears.

Tendrils of light began wrapping around his body like spider webs, and he felt displaced, distorted: almost as if his spirit was leaving his body. It was a strange feeling, but not altogether unpleasant, and Arthur surrendered to the comfort of the embrace of the fake Guinevere.

He failed to notice the black spreading into his body, tainting his armor, sword and everything else, as well as his eyes paling to yellow as his Core reacted to the entity and what it was spreading. He was unaware of what was happening, and even if he was aware he would not fight it. This embrace with even a facsimile of Guinevere was a true comfort in this instant.

" _Rejoice, O King of Knights."_ The entity told him, as everything began to shine white.

" _Rejoice, for your desire shall be fulfilled: you shall Hunt the sinners of the world, and deliver righteous justice forever more. This is your fate, Arthur Pendragon. To be the instrument of justice and Providence for this world. Rejoice, for this will be your atonement."_

His world faded into white, and Arthur's eyes finally closed.

-X-X-X-X-X-

Arthur opened his eyes, broken from his reverie by the sound of someone calling his name. Sluggishly, the former King of Knights got up from his perch and looked to his right.

"Oi, Arthur!" A roguish voice called his name once more as the person it belonged to walked up to him. "There you are. Heh, nap time's over. Time to get the job done."

His companion was cloaked in a green vest and brown trousers as well as boots. Across his back, a strong bow was hung along with a quiver of green-tipped arrows. A green hood obscured his face, though Arthur could see the grin on his face.

"My thanks, Robin." The knight bowed his head in recognition. "I got lost in my memories for a while."

Robin merely shrugged before slapping Arthur on the back. The former King stumbled a little forward from the unexpected blow but didn't react negatively, only sighing a little. Really, Robin could be quite a trickster and a jester at times, doing things like this, but Arthur couldn't complain. Despite his eccentricities, Robin was a proficient bowman, his prowess reminding Arthur of Tristan a little.

They walked to the edge of the mountaintop, looking down at the town that Arthur had spotted earlier. It was now more dominated with torch-light and they could see the castle nearby being overrun gradually.

"We gotta take care of those people down there," Robin answered Arthur's unvoiced inquiry. "They're defying the 'natural order' after all."

Arthur nodded. That was his everpresent task; kill those who would defy the 'natural order' of the world. Even Arthur couldn't fully understand what the 'natural order' was, but he gathered some educated guesses about it over this abyss of time he called his existence.

Every time he was called for a Hunt, it was to remove something that could be construed as 'defying the world'. For example, he could be called to end a serial killer's rampage or he could be sent in order to massacre an entire city or town. The one thing these events had in common was that they were 'not lawful'- they were, in a strict sense, not endorsed by those in power and therefore they were things that broke the status quo and were criminal acts. For example, if a town rioted against its lord and it was not seen as 'acceptable' or was condoned as immoral by many people, the Wild Hunt sent him and his comrades to exterminate the cause- root, stem and all.

To earn the Wild Hunt's attention and to be exterminated... well, the implication was obvious, was it not?

Something was missing there but Arthur discarded that for now. He had to focus on this task and restrain his sympathy

He stepped forward, the smog in his hand clearing, revealing his weapon.

Excalibur was no longer the golden Sword of Promised Victory. Rather, it had been stained black, including the blade- not a black that was like sludge, but rather a shade that was akin to dark steel. Golden lines converged into engravings along the blade, forming into fairy letters and outlining the blade's guard and hilt to an extent.

 **Excalibur Wild: The Immovable Judgement of the Wild King.**

Despite being warped from its old form, Excalibur was still beautiful. Not a traditional beauty, but rather a tragic one: Excalibur had been changed, shifted and even corrupted slightly in order to make it a more fitting tool for the Wild King. Despite that, it had resisted and still did but in exchange, had lost some of its glorious shine in exchange for becoming more an instrument of death rather than true justice.

No matter what, Excalibur followed Arthur throughout his duties despite being stained red with blood every time.

Arthur felt sadness for what had become of Excalibur, but could not deny it still had beauty. Though it didn't have its old reliability and instead was more akin to an executor's sword now, it still was an exceptional Divine Construct.

"You ready?" Robin Hood's tone was disciplined and impassive. He was no longer a jester.

Arthur nodded minutely. The next moment, they dropped off of the mountain, flying downwards towards their destination.

Towards their mission.

As the wind billowed around Arthur, as he clutched Excalibur even tighter in comfort, one thought to spread through his mind. It was a small one, but it still persisted.

 _Was this the atonement that he had wished for?_

The Wild King did not know the answer.

-X-X-X-X-X-

 **Hey, guys! Sorry, it's been quite a while since my last story update, but this was too good to pass up!**

 **This is meant to be the start of my own series of Fate short stories, as well as other branches of the Nasuverse. What does this mean? Basically, it means whatever I write that is Fate related and it isn't a story of itself will be posted here. Take this 'Requiem of the Wild King' for example I won't make it a full story but I will post bits and pieces in this collection in the future.**

 **This kind of collection is meant to keep my muse stimulated with the various Fate/Nasuverse writings that I will write, as well as keep up my enthusiasm for a coming story I'm writing on. This collection won't be updated regularly, but rather irregularly: whenever I write something that will fit here, I'll post it.**

 **Now, to pre-empt any questions about this first short story. Arthur as the Wild King was started by remembering that certain aspects of EMIYA were inspired by Arthur- his deadpan demeanor as well as teasing of his Master first and foremost. His somewhat nihilistic tone too as well came to mind. Therefore, I sought to create an 'EMIYA' counterpart to Arthur, in that he serves a higher being regardless of his own wishes.**

 **Lancer Artoria Alter from Fate/Grand Order also played a part, as she mentions her legend is that of 'King Arthur who became the king of the Wild Hunt after death' instead of 'King Arthur who died at Camlann'.**

 **That's where the similarities end. As you can tell, Arthur is resigned to his path as the Wild King and doesn't desire to exit it- he sees it as his atonement for failing his kingdom. In addition, the Wild Hunt as an entity functions very differently to Alaya or Gaia.**

 **Whereas the former preserves humanity and the latter preserves the planet, the Wild Hunt is really indifferent. It doesn't care about protecting humanity nor protecting the world. All it cares about is 'the natural order'.**

 **Allow me to explain: the Wild Hunt obeys but one rule- to execute sinners, any and all of them. Anything that constitutes as a 'sinner' to the Wild Hunt would be someone that defies the 'natural order', which means anything and anyone that defies a common belief of the people of the world** _ **at the time the sin was committed.**_

 **For example: back in the middle ages people were expected to be loyal to the King, or rather their lord and ruler. If the people committed a rising against their lord, regardless of what his personality or actions were if the consequences would be dire enough the Wild Hunt would get involved.**

 **Another example would be regarding a serial killer in modern day: if they were well-known and they quite obviously violated morality or the laws, they would be executed by the Wild Hunt and its dogs.**

 **The concept of the natural order gets distorted depending on the time that the Wild Hunt pays attention to. Essentially, in terms of Alignment, the Wild Hunt is 'Lawful' and seeks to eliminate anything and anyone that isn't 'Lawful' in terms of alignment. Whether they are Good or Evil doesn't matter, except in certain circumstances.**

 **I'll be making a Servant Sheet for Hunter/Wild King Arthur soon enough and post it accordingly.**

 **I hope you guys enjoyed this first short story. Look forward to the future parts!**


	2. Rider of Justice (I)

**Rider of Justice**

=X=X=X=

The rain pattered against the concrete road in a heavy storm, the sound of the weather thundering away. Cars raced down the streets lit by lights, while others protected themselves against the deluge with coats and umbrellas. You could barely see anything through the rain- people were merely dark shapes moving about.

It was almost a normal sight. Indeed, Fuyuki City had been forecast several days ago for heavy rain, but there was something... eerie. Strange in the air, something that made people more fearful and more cautious in this downpour.

Steps echoed through the streets, phantoms walking along the roads towards one another. The people they belonged to bore no sign of noticing the passersby who gave them strange looks, nor of the floating stars with wings attached to them. One red and one blue, their wings shivered in the cold and in anticipation.

Dangerous. This encounter was going to be dangerous, they sensed easily.

The steps eventually stopped opposite one another, each on a different side of the street. The two young men eyed each other up as one would do to an opponent, each clutching something in their right hands.

From a distance, and through the rain, the objects almost looked like belt buckles.

The boy closest to a traditional Japanese style home was quite the oddity. Red hair was already uncommon in Japan, amber eyes even more so, but across his hair, haphazard streaks of white could be seen. They stopped at one point only to reappear in another place in larger pale clumps.

What else was strange was his skin tone. Across normally pale skin, large tan lines streaked up his face, collecting around his left eye in an especially large spot. To outsiders, the tan lines would undoubtedly look more like scars, or rather cracks similar to the result of _kintsugi._

He was clad in a dark, zipped-up hoodie along with blue jeans and white trainers, but something about him radiated 'strength'. He didn't bear the stance of a true-born warrior, but he was undoubtedly prepared to fight even as his hand shivered. From anticipation, fear or apprehension could not be known.

His opponent was different. In his early to mid-twenties at the very least, he wore a dark suit with a white shirt and black tie around his neck. His dark hair, normally flaring out a little wildly, was flattened by the downpour of rain, though his brown eyes remained clear.

Focusing on his opponent, the brown-haired man sighed despite himself, rubbing at his face.

"You really cannot die, can you?" He muttered, loud enough for the other to hear him. "Shirou Emiya... you're a truly persistent person."

Shirou Emiya laughed a little to himself, shrugging lightly despite the tension in the air. "Well, I just keep getting lucky. Thanks for helping against that Saber though, MacDonnell."

"Think nothing of it." Ethan waved a hand dismissively. "After all, he was a mutual enemy to us. It was more beneficial to help you against him rather than keep fighting."

Shirou nodded in understanding, remembering back just a few days ago. That Saber... with that sword that cut everything in its way, along with having an evil aura... Shirou gulped audibly, paling a little. It had been a miracle he had survived that encounter...

 _Static filled his mind._

How had he done so? His body had been perforated, cut up, sliced and more by that Blackened Hero's blade, that shining black katana that oozed malevolence.

The reason Shirou had lived. It could only be described as...

 _His mind was on fire. His body was hot...!_

 _I am the_ _ **bone**_ _of my_ _ **sword.**_

 _ **Steel**_ _is my_ _ **mind**_ _, and_ _ **fire**_ _is my_ _ **blood**_ _._

 _So, as I_ _ **pray...**_

 _ **Un**mit*d *os* W*r*s**_

Shirou drew himself out of his reverie, instead re-training his vision on Ethan. Briefly holding his chest as phantom pain coursed through his heart. Breathing a little heavy, he readjusted his grip on the object in his hand.

Ethan saw the motion and wordlessly copied him.

"There's... really no way we can avoid this, is there?" Shirou smiled forlornly, asking that single rhetorical question. "If you back off..."

Ethan shook his head. "There's no way to avoid it. I have to retrieve that girl and the other Class Cards. It's not personal... I'm just doing my job."

That was to be expected. As a bounty hunter of sorts, Ethan would inevitably do what he had to do in order to gain money and complete a mission.

With the girls sleeping in the estate behind him, Shirou had no other option but to protect them. Truly, he was actually afraid: he knew what Ethan could do, what he was capable of with _that_. But despite his feelings of fear... Shirou Emiya did not once falter.

His eyes narrowed, swallowing the pit of fear in his throat, and decided to _fight._

Pressing the buckle against his waist, a leather belt wrapped around it, securing it to himself. Ethan, devoid of emotion, did the same. At that time, they both took out their Class Cards, ready to begin the fight that would decide a certain amber-eyed girl's fate.

The card in Shirou's hand depicted an archer aiming a bow at the sky. Ethan's depicted a beast-headed man snarling, flexing and ready to destroy.

However, the card in Shirou's hand was cracked, and blackened as if thrown into a fire. Shirou felt uneasy, using it again so soon after _that_ happened. Even now, he breathed heavily at the prospect of _that_ happening again.

But he had no choice.

"Henshin!" They both shouted resolutely, sliding their cards into their belts.

" **INSTALL, ARCHER!"**

" **INSTALL, BERSERKER!"**

Light encompassed their bodies- one the color of fire, the other a deep ruby red. For several moments the aura wrapped around them, before dissipating in a flourish.

Shirou was now clad in black armor, with gold patterns emblazoned along the armored arms before going down to his hands, which also had thick metal 'manacles' clasped on them. The gold lines continued down his legs and onto his boots, before looping back and encircling his knees. His chest armor was red, with the golden lines continuing across it. His helmet, however, covered his entire head, with the forehead piece being white and with something akin to white crests jutting out to the sides of the helmet. The amber lenses of the helmet flashed brightly in the night.

 _Kamen Rider Nameless._

In his hands were clasped two weapons that bore a resemblance to handguns. However, they also had blades attached to their undersides- one as black as night, with a design similar to hexagons, while the other was as white as the clouds in the sky.

Deadly weapons, finely tuned for the personal use of a man _who fell into the role of a machine._

Ethan was clad in black armor as well, but of a different design. His forearms were enclosed in red, spiked gauntlets, with skull designs engraved onto them also. His boots were clawed, with red bones clinging to his legs and torso. Two blood-red whip-like appendages were attached to his back, fluttering in the rain. His chest armor was adorned with an elaborate design bearing a resemblance to the runes used by the Irish magi of old. Finally, around Ethan's head was a horned helmet, with only a slit with shining lenses being an indication of him being able to see.

 _Kamen Rider Curruid._

In his right hand was clasped a huge spear that shone crimson. It had spikes along the edges, just before the sharpened blades on each end. An aura flowed around it and Shirou's stance tightened as if the spear was seeking out something to devour.

Even being in the state as he was now, an image burned itself slightly into Shirou's mind. That spear...

 _Gae Bolg Curruid: The Spear of Carnage._

He knew what that spear could do, had experienced it for himself as the scar on his chest could attest. Shirou tensed, however, instead of freezing- he couldn't afford to do so right now, couldn't afford to show weakness to his opponent.

Kamen Rider Curruid grasped his spear and twirled it around in a wide circle. It easily gouged into the road he stood on, debris flying. Curruid grasped the shaft again tightly, stopping the rotating. Pointing it towards Shirou, his tone lacked emotion as he spoke.

"I apologize for this, but... I will kill you here and now Shirou Emiya." Curruid informed him. "You cannot be left alive any longer."

"I'd like to see you try." Shirou grasped his handguns tightly. "I'm not gonna die so easily. But if I'm gonna die... I'll take you with me."

Curruid laughed, a surprise considering his regular demeanor. "Well said, Shirou. You're an unexpected worthy opponent, but all the same..."

 _They would fight, perhaps to the death._

For a moment, all was still. Nothing moved- nothing _dared_ to do so.

Then...

Curruid and Nameless disappeared from view, cracking the street further and causing cracks to echo in the rainy night.

They dashed towards one another, weapons drawn back. Curruid's spear was ready to impale Nameless right through the heart. Nameless' gun-blades, Kanshou and Bakuya, were positioned to slit his enemy's throat and gut him utterly.

Time seized for a moment just before they reached each other. It proceeded at a snail's pace, as they both watched the other's weapon come to take their very life.

For a moment, Shirou's breath was taken away. He didn't truly see Curruid in front of him- his body was merely reacting by instinct, an instinct that had been taken from the Card he used to transform.

What he saw...

Was a world of infinite swords. Gears floated in the sky, and numerous swords akin to gravestones were stuck into the hill. Blood flowed freely along the hill itself, coloring the brown dirt ruby red and rusting the blades to the point of being unrecognizable.

Shirou saw him. The man wearing black, with white hair that fluttered in the wind that smelled of blood. His hands clutched nothing and he reacted to nothing but even so, Shirou could tell.

That man... was nothing more than a machine.

 _A man who threw away his past identity and drowned himself in blood for the sake of his ideal._

Shirou swung Kanshou and Bakuya together with a vigor that only now entered his body and stimulated his muscles. Gritting his teeth, Shirou swung his gun-blades towards the neck of that man, aiming to kill him here-!

Their gazes connected. Gold met gold. The man's expression was neutral, but his mouth moved as he spoke.

Shirou didn't bother listening to him.

He didn't want to listen to him.

He didn't want to acknowledge him.

He didn't want to accept the man in black. If he did... he wouldn't be able to live with himself anymore.

The vision swam, Curruid reappearing as if he jumped through a mist. His spear was thrust forward, the red aura wrapping around his weapon even more now.

Redirecting his weapons, Nameless and Curruid clashed for the second time. With all of their strength, they aimed to take the other's life for their own gain, disregarding their own physical limitations.

An explosion sounded.

Steel broke in two.

Blood flowed onto the street, coating it just as the world of infinite blades had been drenched in it.

=X=X=X=

 **So, this is another entry for my Fate short stories collection! This time, a Kamen Rider/Prisma Illya story!**

 **The backstory on this is that since Prisma Illya is a magical girl series since Shirou is himself a person wanting to be a Hero of Justice in most portrayals of him, why not give Illya's brother a little love? Along with the Class Card system and how it works, it just gave me an idea.**

 **There's a lot of detail to go into this short story which will be expanded upon in later chapters, but the basics are that after Miyu was sent off to Illya's world, Julian decided to try and follow her. After all, going by Kayneth, magecraft that leads to other worlds is entirely possible. But he was unwilling to risk himself to do so. So he created a Kamen Rider belt technology as the logical next step of the Install system, which has its own issues.**

 **Instead of 'Installing' a Hero onto one's self, with the risk of soul contamination like what happened when Miyu-Shirou Installed himself, the belt instead filters out the less desirable elements in order to make the transformation smoother- the Install Driver instead Installs 'armor' based upon the Hero upon the user when a Class Card is inserted into it.**

 **This is one of my more original ideas, so I hope you guys like it. If you want more elaboration upon the above, just let me know!**

 **And yes, _that_ man is the 'Hero' inside the Class Card Illya-Shirou uses. **

**Along with this, a certain holy nun of a cult will appear later on. As an antagonist or something else? Well, that remains to be seen~**


End file.
